


To Return

by Skeppsbrott



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 1940s, F/M, Humanstuck, POV Third Person, Post-World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28577613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeppsbrott/pseuds/Skeppsbrott
Summary: "Letting the weary but restless men off the boat is a form of organized chaos; everyone is ready to do what he must but not much more, with only enough attention paid to form and protocol that officers and anyone else who might mind can't be bothered to intervene. Time collapses: the eagerly anticipated tomorrow appears to cease to exist, and what seems like the ages that have for so long been their present, becomes history. All at the sound of the ship docking."The war won, Dominic finds himself with an open horizon line, only interrupted by the one and only.
Relationships: Orphaner Dualscar/Spinneret Mindfang
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	To Return

The crowd is immense, hysterical, and overflowing with affection as the ship docks. Groups of men begin to hesitantly take farewell of one another as they await their freedom. Loose items and clothes are stowed away or put on. Dominic stays in place, leans against the railing as the crowd begins to move. To his left, a young man yells to a woman in the crowd ashore and she waves frenetically, attempting to call back through the noise of people and ship machinery.

A wave runs through the crowd aboard: their legs, backs, and hearts ache. The conversations and games fizzle out as their attention is diverted, hopefully and anxiously trying to spot a familiar face among the mothers, brothers, children, sisters, fathers, pets, women waiting. Groups of young women waving and calling at the homecomers. He, too, gives up trying to pretend like this is not extraordinary. As good a companionship as he has found with his fellow men, he is ready to return now, admit there is a face he is looking for.

Letting the weary but restless men off the boat is a form of organized chaos; everyone is ready to do what he must but not much more, with only enough attention paid to form and protocol that officers and anyone else who might mind can't be bothered to intervene. As the crowd moves around Dominic, men embrace one another in rushed farewells, say their greetings: what they had been awaiting and planning for for so long nevertheless seems to come unexpected and abrupt. They all pass him by, trying to save a moment to wish him well, going in for handshakes but every so often capitulating into hugs and even a kiss or two. Time collapses: the eagerly anticipated tomorrow appears to cease to exist, and what seems like the ages that have for so long been their present, becomes history. All at the sound of the ship docking. He sags behind, allowing those most eager their space, still eyeing over the crowd.

The solid ground rocks beneath his feet as he nods adieu to the men still being spewed out of the vessel behind him and around him. They disperse among the civilians. Into bright, noisy, loving sounds. Hundreds of sobs and cheers and "how-have-you-been"'s and "you've-grown-so-much"'s and kisses and camera flashes and assertions of love choked out into the fabrics and furs of jackets and coats. Yet, ahead of him, the streets appear to lay empty. The crowd lingers. There's an offer of a future and an invitation to find his way home, but no assurance, no guidance. Ushered on by the movement of the crowd he slowly continues ahead. A young man looks up from his girlfriend - she has his cap clutched in her hand and his face is stained with tears - and raises his hand in an almost-salute. Dominic makes out a greeting of "God be with you, Sir" through the noise and nods in acknowledgement. By now, the men still surrounding him are uneasy and hesitant. Some eye the passing people in reluctant hopefulness, others take the immediate turn to the gatherings of young women with their hair done and lips painted, who are whispering and laughing amongst themselves as they wave and whistle at the uniformed crowd. Yet some stay behind, or they pick up their bag, fix their eyes on the horizon and make their way onwards through the families and reunions. Dominic pauses before following suit, slowly tearing himself away from the by now dispersing body of people. That is when she appears.

She is wearing suit pants and a fur coat, there is a camera in her hands but the lens cover is on, the brim of her hat is wider - and less on trend - than ever. She clutches the camera firmly in front of her with her back straight as she waits on him to acknowledge her. He sets down his bag. She purses her lips. "You sure aren't in any hurry," she says, and it is like a sudden shower of rain on a hot summer's day.

"I don't know if there's any future for me to rush towards, on this side of it," Dominic retorts. Miranda can not help herself, or maybe she does not care, either way she begins to close the distance between them with steady, slow steps. The wood heels of her shoes clack against the asphalt. "I've ran into the smoke enough to last me a lifetime at this point."

The black fur ripples like water as she pulls it a bit tighter and she reaches up to brush her fingers over his face. It is a gentle, inviting touch, that makes him force himself into restraint. As the young couples around them embrace with such unabashed glee and tenderness, it borders on painful, tickling that familiar flame within him that he time and time again fails to distinguish as either passion or anger. "They couldn't have patched your face up any better?" Miranda hums. He looks carefully for her exterior to mirror his own inner workings.

"They reserve that for the men who still might have use for it," he replies. Miranda pulls back her hand, watches him, perhaps her heart speeding up as much as his. The silence drags out. "I didn't think you'd be here."

It takes a moment for her to respond. Averting her eyes onto a high ranking officer surrounded by a herd of children of varying ages, all pleading for his attention, tugging at the fabric of his jacket. She idly brushes her fingers over the camera house. "I thought I might take some photos. Sentimentality is always easy to sell to the tabloids. If I got the right shot it might even go over with the National Geographic, or Time, or whatever else it is the young and promising are drooling over."

"Did you get it?"

Miranda purses her lips as she's tracing the edge of the lens. Her gaze pans from the family, over the young couples, then the backs of men welcomed back by parents and siblings. "Unfortunately," she responds, "sentimentality seems to be my Achilles' heel." 

Finally, he follows her line of sight to the few lone backs making their way away from the commotion, towards buses and taxis and long walks home. "And either way," she breaks the silence between them, "journalists should show what's true, not just what people want to see."

When he takes her hand, she almost jerks it back in surprise. Her eyes widen ever so slightly. "Seems true enough to me," he hums, watching a faint blush rise to her face.

As their fingers slowly lace, her expression remains stern, cautious. "Quite preposterous of you to believe that truth is static."

"This-" he swings their hands between them a little, "is true. And so are the scars. So are the graves. So are the reunions."

"Not if they are not based in the truth of… what comes next. After the photo ops end."

"And yet you are here."

"I missed before."

"Did you already bury me?"

"I'm preparing to."

"And my vitality?"

"Will it be here tomorrow? The day after tomorrow?" 

The breath catches in his mouth, open and ready to bite back, if not for the fact that she is right. Miranda looks away again. The crowd moves but does not disperse as some groupings are now singing and chanting, families coming together as the men spot their friends. Once delivered good-bye's are forgotten and once more delayed.  


"I won't be the same tomorrow as I was, no," Dominic says after they have been frozen in the moment for long enough that it begins to seem potentially truly eternal. "Of course not. You of all people- but I will-" the look she gives him, and then denies him, has him squeeze her hand a bit firmer. She has not yet gone. "I refuse to not live to see the future."

"That is ridiculous."

"I did not suffer through the past so I could defer the pleasure of what comes after, to a future generation that could never appreciate the sacrifices."  She falters, blushes in what seems like rage. He softens his grip on her hand, expecting her to pull away and though she does not, he becomes painfully aware that the end for them is coming up just around the corner. Now that her hand is in his, he feels oddly at ease with the thought. He lifts it to his lips and kisses the back of her palm. "Am I dead to you the moment I no longer rage and burn and hurt?"

At this, Miranda smirks. The spark of a woman biding her time like hot coal in the ashes is familiar in the expression. "No," she says, as Dominic's chest ignites. "but if you think you have ever finally gone through it, there is not enough life in you to last the night."

"No doubt," he hums, her body finally becoming real once more as she indulges to come close. The scent of her perfume falls like a mist over his world. "But there are many more nights to come, and I intend to last all of them."

The kiss tastes of newsprint and fresh ink, darkrooms, tobacco, sneaking into the movies when they were poor and in their twenties, her grandparents' lobster cages waiting to be cleaned, bebop and liquor. Her camera presses into his side as he pulls her close for what has to be one of the last times, something he realizes as she whispers against the side of his face:

"But will you burn bright enough to light them?"

"You haven't even welcomed me back."


End file.
